The Hate That's In Your Head
by TheIbis2010
Summary: In the summer of 1830, Éponine is still at the ruthless, greedy mercy of her In a sinister plan to repay his gang, Thenardier sells her for three days to a brothel run by the up-and-coming young businesswoman, Adrienne As the days pass, Adrienne begins to only to question Thenardier's motives as well as her own, but her unlikely friendship with
1. A Thousand Eighteen

**A/N: Bonjour, readers! This is a new story I'm starting (one that I _definitely_ have a lot of time for), and it should run along "The Bloody Flag of Freedom", but it will be much shorter than I've planned "Bloody Flag" to be. Anyway this is a semi one-shot about Éponine, and what are possibly the three worst days of her life (which, if you know anything at all about Éponine, is saying a lot). Side characters, aside from Azelma and Thenardier, are mostly O/Cs, most prominently Adrienne Pompidou, who will be familiar to those who've read "No God Above". **

**I'd also like to thank AzureOtter, who once upon a time suggested to me writing a story about the colorful Mam'selle Pompidou, here it is. You would not have this story without her.**

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**September 15, 1830**

**Chapter 1: A Thousand Eighteen**

Monsieur Thenardier desperately counted the coins again, then threw them on the floor in disgust. "Damn it all!" He yelled madly.

If Éponine Thenardier had grown up in any other environment, she would have been scared witless by her father's rage. As it was, she was only vaguely curious, and got up drowsily from the flattened, uneven mattress she shared as a bed with her sister, Azelma. Her younger sister had awoken with her movement, and she blinked her eyes open. For a single moment, she didn't look older than she was; only thirteen. But than the wearisome sickness of poverty came back into her face, and she went back to looking older, too old, for her years.

"What is it?" Éponine asked Thenardier.

He got up from his chair and began to pace about the room. "Do you remember that job on the Pont-Royal, back in August?" He asked her.

She nodded. She had a very good memory for when her father dragged her along to play the role of watchdog for his schemes, and the Pont-Royal operation was an incident she wouldn't forget in a hurry.

"What about it?"

"It was only four men who did the job; me, Montparnasse, Claquesous, and young Jacques Montfort. You know him."

Éponine flinched at the sound of that last name, but she merely nodded.

"Claquesous gave me his share for safekeeping: almost two and a half thousand francs. Said he expected it back within a month, or else. The thing is...I gave that money to Isaac Wolfstein."

She groaned outwardly. "The opium dealer? Why would you do that, Papa?"

Thenardier gave a dog-like growl and glared at her fiercely. "Do you know what I owe that Jew for the drugs he supplies us with? If I paid my full debt to him, he could sail back to Jerusalem and build a goddamn temple."

'_The drugs he supplies _you_ with._' Éponine thought bitterly, but she kept her mouth shut. Isaac Wolfstein was a kingpin in the Parisian underworld, notorious for his business dealings and the coveted laudanum he sold. Her father was easily seduced by temptation, and what Wolfstein might have over him, Éponine didn't want to know.

Azelma, who was now wide awake and listening, asked "So what happened?"

"Wolfstein's off my back, for now. But Claquesous is still a fly in the ointment. If the Jew of Pantin is someone you don't want to piss off, Claquesous is even worse. How I've managed it, I don't know, but here I've scraped together a thousand eighteen hundred francs."

Éponine jumped off the bed in alarm. "But that's our money for food! For clothing! For _living_, for Christ's sake!"

Thenardier sighed pathetically. "I can assure you, _fille_, if Claquesous is not satisfied, food will become a very minor issue for you, and your sister as well. Now for God's sake, help me think of something to do!"

She furiously tried to make her brain become more dark-minded, but it wouldn't work. The reason her father had been such a good businessman was that he saw the opportunity for gain in everything. Éponine, however, had no such skills.

"What if Maman's idea works?" Azelma suggested. Their mother was off in another part of Paris doing one of her favorite pastimes; job-hunting. Every few months or so, Madame Thenardier would declare dramatically that she was sick to death of the Gorbeau tenement and their foul little room, and she'd storm off into the city to find herself work. Whether she ever found anything or not, Éponine didn't know, but these outbursts usually lasted for almost a week.

Papa scoffed. "She hasn't succeeded before, and I won't count on her to succeed now. No, I'm going to have to turn other resources..." His voice trailed off, and he stood up to look at his daughters. Then, his look of desperation changed in an instant to almost diabolical cleverness.

"You're grinning like a Cheshire, Papa." Éponine said, slightly annoyed and afraid with his quick change of countenance. "What's gotten into your head?"

"I think I may have just solved the problem." He said enigmatically. "Of all the rats to turn to in Paris, only one of them can help me now. Madame Ferrant."

The moment he said that dreaded name, Éponine's legs felt weak. She remembered Madame Ferrant, a decrepit old woman who was more like an evil step-mother from a fairy tale than a real human. She was a frequent business partner of Thenardier, and her father praised her at being the best in the business, which was true. Madame Ferrant was indeed the best at what she did, but what she did wasn't very nice.

Éponine tried to act unfazed, but she couldn't resist asking "Why her?" to discover if her father was planning what she thought he was.

"You know why." Said Thenardier coolly.

He was.

And Azelma. Poor 'Zelma. It was no coincidence that Thenardier had looked at both of them than just Éponine. That he was use Éponine in this scheme, she found predictable. But his thirteen-year old daughter? It was time for lines to be drawn.

"Azelma, get out." Éponine commanded. "I need to speak with Papa, by myself."

Her sister blinked, unsure what was happening. "But-"

"Now!"

Azelma rose from the bed, trembling at Éponine's raised voice, and exited the garret in a hurry, leaving Éponine and Thenardier alone.


	2. A Sister's Sacrifice

**Chapter 2: A Sister's Sacrifice**

They were both silent for a few moments. Then, Éponine said coldly "You've gone too far this time, Papa."

He snorted. "My sweet 'Ponine, the day I go too far is the day I end up with a bullet right here." He pointed to between his eyebrows.

"That means nothing, except that the past two years have been remarkably lucky for you. But you won't have any luck if you plan on...bringing Azelma to Lena Ferrant." Her tone savagely indicated that "bringing" was not the word she had in mind.

"Oh?" Asked Thenardier sardonically, raising an eyebrow. "And why is that?"

"Because Lena Ferrant is the most monstrous creature in Paris!" Éponine ejaculated. "And I'm taking your cronies into account when I say that! That..._woman_ would sell her own mother to her customers for a night if she could, and for a year if she felt she could make a better profit. That bordello of hers, _The Sailor of Brittany_, is a very passage into a hell, and if a young girl-like 'Zelma- isn't careful, she'll end up on a riverboat with her clothes off in the middle of the night!"

Papa's lip curled. "I didn't say anything about a riverboat."

Éponine swore under her breath.

"No," she said coldly. "But you know exactly what I mean when I mention it."

"I do." Thenardier said, and he sat down in his chair, looking at her mutely.

She should have gone back to the subject at hand, Azelma, but now that _that _night had been brought up, she couldn't let it go. Éponine walked to the desk and leaned over it, her eyes filled with anger. "You told me I'd be taken care of. Looked after, for once in my life. You knew what was going to happen in the end, and you. Didn't. Tell me."

"Yes, and I've apologized for that, 'Ponine, many times." Her father said, as casually as though he were apologizing for not getting her a new dress she wanted. "In hindsight, I do admit it's something I've come to regret. But it had to be done. It was that, or starve."

Éponine laughed bitterly. "As if that's not we're doing that now? Don't get high and mighty with me, Monsieur 'holier-than thou'. Ever since you lost the inn, all you've done is drag us deeper into your pits of evil, Papa. My brother's run away, two others have been sold off and my sister is on the verge of experiencing the same nightmare you've put me through; you would sell your daughter to a brothel just to pay off a debt. That's when it's time. Someone has to protect this family, from the man who protects this family."

"And that's going to be you?" Thenardier sneered. "Then tell me, 'Ponine; how do you plan on stopping me?"

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. To be truthful, she didn't have any type of plan. She'd barely been thinking when she'd decided to speak out against her father. How _was_ she going to save Azelma from Ferrant and her ilk?

She thought it over. There was only one way, and if she wanted to protect her sister, she had to take it.

So Éponine said, "I'll make a deal with you."

Her father leaned forward, interested. Thenardier was by no means immune to gambling, and if there was anything he loved more than money, it was quick, easy money.

"If I make the amount of money you owe Claquesous in three days at Madame Ferrant's, on my own, then you can never, _ever _sell Azelma to that awful place."

Thenardier grinned. "Seven hundred francs in three days? 'Ponine, are you sure you want to make that wager?"

"I'm sure."

"Very well then. And if you lose?"

She took a deep breath. It was too late to back out now. "Then Azelma's yours." She said, trying to keep her voice expressionless. Before he could question her, she held out her hand. "Well, what do you say?" She asked quickly.

Thenardier was silent for a moment. Then he smiled, showing his tobacco-stained teeth. "We have a deal." And he shook her hand.

Éponine withdrew. She felt dizzy and stunned all of a sudden, as though she'd just fallen from a great height and landed on her feet, unsure of the ground of beneath her.

"We start out for the _Sailor_ in an hour, 'Ponine. Best prepare yourself."

She nodded. Then she ran out the door to see Azelma.

* * *

Azelma was waiting for her on the other side, her eyes wide. "What's going on?" She asked.

Even that small question reassured Éponine of her duty to do this. Azelma was still young, and despite her harsh conditions, quite innocent; it was as thought that sweet, petty child of the Montfermeil inn had gone through life aging too fast without gaining any of the burdens of adulthood. And if Éponine-who'd lost her innocence long ago, on that riverboat-could keep her that way for just a little while longer, she would certainly pay the price, even if this was it.

"Good news." She said happily. "You're not going to be brought to Madame Ferrant?"

"Who's Madame Ferrant?"

Éponine smiled, and stroked her sister's hair gently. "Someone I pray you'll never have to meet."


	3. Mistress of the House

**Chapter 3: Mistress of the House**

"Now remember, mademoiselle." Madame Ferrant said. "All good things come at a price. I expect you to take good care of this place, and the girls as well. Do you understand?"

Adrienne Pompidou nodded.

The old woman scowled at her, and drew herself to her full height, inclining her head to look Adrienne in the eyes. "Do you understand?" She repeated, a slightedge to her voice.

"Yes, madame," said Adrienne. "I know what to do."

She sneered. Lena Ferrant was not an attractive woman by any means, with her elderly age and long, stringy gray hair. Her wrinkled black dress gave her the air of a grumpy old prioress, an image that was partly aided by the look of disapproval on her face. "Good. I've owned this establishment ever since Bonaparte's troops took their pleasures here, and if I was so much as a month younger than sixty-five, I'd never dream of selling _The_ _Sailor _to anyone, even decent girls like you from..."She paused, and looked at Adrienne curiously. "Where are you from again, my dear?"

"Gascony. I grew up in a town west of Bordeux."

"And how, may I ask, did a young province girl like yourself-a Gascon, no less-end up here, in the capital?"

The flicker of a face with cruel blue eyes passed through Adrienne's mind, but she shook the memory away. This was not a good time.

"That's my business." She said, her tone indicating that the topic was closed.

"Alright, dearie, alright." Ferrant apologized. "I don't mean to pry, just curious is all. I'll he leaving now."

The old woman shuffled out from behind her desk, the many cheap necklaces around her neck swaying and clinking. She opened the door, but before she left, she took something out of her pocket and handed it to Adrienne. It was a small bronze key, no longer than he middle finger.

"You are now the proprietress of _The Sailor of Brittany_, Adrienne," declared Ferrant, sounding half reluctant and half relieved. Adrienne couldn't imagine why. "The best of luck to you." The former madam bowed stiffly to her, and departed.

"Where will you go?" She called.

"Normandy." Ferrant replied, her back remaining turned. "I've always wanted to live by a beach."

Adrienne looked down at the key in her hands. It was so small, and yet it represented more authority than she'd ever had before. She'd beaten the odds, and convinced Ferrant that she was capable to run this house.

Now, she just had to convince herself as well.

Suddenly, the doors of the brothel burst open. A group of men were getting drunk on the ground floor, and all of them were surprised at the sight of a small, ferret-faced man with red hair, dragging a young girl inside by her hair.

"Ferrant!" He bellowed. "I have a bargain to make with you!"

The old woman looked at the stranger with barely disguised contempt. "Thenardier." She huffed. "I might have known. Come upstairs and leave my guests alone. We'll talk business in my office. I have some news you're unlikely to take well."

* * *

The man named Thenardier had become so angry and red in the face, it would not surprise Adrienne if he blew _The Sailor_ down with a bit of huffing and puffing. "_Retiring_!" He repeated, furious. "Mordieu, Lena! Couldn't you have told me this was going to happen?"

Ferrant snarled in annoyance. "You've no one to blame for your incompetence but yourself, Thenardier. I've tried to sell this place for over two months now, and that you knew nothing about it means nothing to me. It just so happens that Mademoiselle Pompidou," she gestured to Adrienne. "was in the market for a pleasure-house, and we've discussed her purchase of this place several times this past month. She officially bought _The Sailor _from me only a moment ago."

Adrienne resisted the urge to laugh. "In the market" was not exactly what she'd been in when she'd come to _The Sailor of Brittany_. Three months ago, she'd been a twenty-two year old girl in Paris, freshly arrived from Bergerac, with nothing but a valise of clothes, a silver ring, and an allowance of several thousand francs. She'd rented a hotel room in the Faubourg Saint Michel, and had spent the first several days trying to straighten out her affairs. After the accident last year, her parents had given her one chance to come to Paris and support herself, as she'd foolishly claimed any "modern" girl could. But she'd quickly learned that living on her own was not all it was wised up to be. Not a single person closer than Montreuil would hire her, and of course she had to turn down any offers from the ladies at the dockside. She was so busy job-hunting, she'd been late paying her rent. The landlord was, of course, very willing to overlook it...for a different kind of price. After a harsh refusal and a lot of shouting, Adrienne was out on the street, simply looking for a place to live.

She'd spent a week sleeping in alleys and on benches with barely enough food to eat before coming to Ferrant's house. While it was undeniably a den of evil, it did have several rooms to let, and the price was modest enough for her to afford. And once she became settled, she got to know the owner and manager of the brothel, Lena Ferrant. They'd both lead strangely similar lives before coming here to _The Sailor_, and while Lena was as squalid and ugly as her whorehouse, she had a glimmer of emotion underneath the surface, although many never saw it.

After Lena learned of Adrienne's need for a job, and she expressed her wish to sell the house. At first, Adrienne couldn't believe her luck. _The Sailor_ was hardly the most prosperous brothel in Paris, but it had a good reputation as well as income. But later, she began to doubt herself. What did she, a farm girl from Gascony, know about running a _whorehouse_?

Even so, this was too good an opportunity to pass up. She might never get this chance again to start in business so far ahead. So she feigned experience, and gathering up the last of her allowance, paid Ferrant the amount needed to buy _The Sailor_.

And already she was faced with a problem.

Thenardier's anger simmered, and shifted his gaze from Ferrant to Adrienne to the girl with him, then back to Ferrant."You can do nothing for me?" He asked.

"Nothing." Ferrant confirmed. She passed past the man, and remarked as she made her way out. "You're going to have to do this with the _new _mistress of the house, Thenardier."

Silence fell over the four of them. Adrienne used this time to observe the girl Thenardier had brought with him, who hadn't breathed a word this entire time. She was probably no more than sixteen, but her gauntness and dirtiness made her look closer to fourteen. She was dressed poorly, in a white dress and skirt smudged with mud, and a floppy cap that hid her eyes. But for Adrienne, it was not these ugly traits that made her stand out. Rather, it was her tangled raven hair, her cast-down chestnut eyes, and those pale red lips. She wasn't sure exactly how, but she was quite beautiful.

She cleared her throat. "What can I do for you, Monsieur Thenardier?" She asked.

Now that his anger had faded, Thenardier's expression was much more amacable, but there was something in his gaze that still made Adrienne dislike him.  
"Well you see, mademoiselle, I am nothing more or less than a poor man struggling for money. My situation was become so terrible that I must return to that path I'd hoped I could swear off forever; giving my poor 'Ponine to the forces of _The Sailor_."

"'Return'?" Adrienne repeated. "So this has happened to her before?'

"As I said, a poor man." Thenardier answered evasively. "I was hoping to give her to your care for three days, Mademoiselle Pompidou, until I can appease my creditors with her earnings."

Adrienne could do nothing but stare at the man and his daughter. Who _was_ this monster, who would willingly sell his own child to a whorehouse to pay his debts. It was different with the regular whores; they had been brought, willingly or no, into this lifestyle, and it was what they did every day. This girl knew nothing but pain and loss and suffering, and was about to know even more. She had almost made up her mind to refuse Thenardier.

But then she saw the icy cold stare that Ferrant was giving her. She suddenly hated that the old woman was here with her. If she was alone with Thenardier, perhaps she could have turned him more quietly. But Ferrant was observing her every move, deciding whether or not she'd made a good choice in her successor. If she decided negatively, she might even resume management, and Adrienne would lose her job before ever having worked it.

Her emotions boiling over in conflict, she slowly raised her hand, and shook Thenardier's thin, paw-like fingers.

"We have a deal." She said, no longer looking at the young girl. "Good day to you, Monsieur Thenardier. Madame Ferrant, could you show this girl to a vacant room? She should get comfortable for what's ahead."


	4. The Actions of a Supposed Dandy

**A/N: All right, let's wind the clocks back a month. A month ago, TheIbis2010 wouldn't dare disappoint any of his wonderful readers by not updating his stories. But what happened? Did he leave FanFiction? Did he forget? Did they actually succeed in killing the Batman (I mean, the author)?**

**Nope! I'm back, everyone, with _Dark Knight _quotes to prove it. Sorry that this has taken so long; school has not been particularly kind to a guy like me. But now, I've returned to FanFiction, and not only have I posted my new Sweeney Todd story (which I highly recommend you checking out: who doesn't love serial killings and true love?), but here is the long-waited update to _The Hate That's In Your Head_! Yay! Feel free to review, favorite, and follow!**

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**Chapter 4: ****The Actions of a Supposed Dandy**

Later that evening, Éponine leaned her head against the window of her room in _The Sailor_, praying hopelessly that tonight would last forever so that the morning would never come. Because in the morning, she would have to pay for the choices she had made.

She'd been arguing with herself on a certain point ever since Ferrant had locked her in her room. For locked she was, as the door would not open, nor would anyone hear her pleas for help. After a few minutes she'd stopped and simply sat at the foot of her uncomfortable bed. Weakness had no place in a bawdy house like _The Sailor of Brittany_.

At first, Éponine had been relieved that Madame Ferrant was leaving just as she was arriving. This new woman, Mlle. Pompidou, was much younger and, she'd hoped, kinder. By God, was she let down. For a moment, it looked as though she would refuse her father, but then she agreed to his offer, and had the Crone of Paris bring her down to this cell.

The reason she was upset with herself was because she _knew_ that she could have avoided all of this. Never have come to _the Sailor_, never meet Pompidou, and not be awaiting the coming evils like a pig for slaughter. _Azelma_ could be the one their father used for his scheme, and Éponine could still be at the Gorbeau tenement, safe as could be.

But then she forced herself to stop being selfish. Her sister was the last person in this world she truly loved, and had inherited her mother's stubbornness, but also her father's weak spirit. She would be gobbled up by the world that had devoured Éponine and spat her back out in an instant, only Azelma's leaving wouldn't be so quick. Thenardier milked cows until their udders were dry, and Éponine knew his claim that this was a "one-time arrangement" for Azelma was a pile of horse droppings.

She ran her fingers across the window glass. For whatever reason, Ferrant had made her room be on the ground floor, and the window could be opened wide enough for her to jump out. The fall to the ground would hurt, but she would survive. And once she did, she would return to the tenement, get Azelma, and leave their parents forever. It didn't matter where. In Gavroche's elephant, maybe, or on the goddamn moon for all she cared. Anywhere was better than what Thenardier would make them do if they stayed.

Éponine was preparing to toss herself out of the window, when she saw someone passing by the road. Better yet, she recognized that person, and if there was anyone she could trust outside of her siblings, this was it.

"Montparnasse!" She hissed.

He turned, his eyes hazily focusing on her. He must have recognized her, because his brow furrowed in confusion. "'Ponine? What the deuce are you doing inside _The Sailor_ _of Brittany_?"

She smiled for the first time in days. She'd had a long, good history with the youngest criminal of the Patron-Minette. They'd been a couple for almost a year, and friends for even longer. She'd found him charming and strong and mysterious, and he'd thought her beautiful from the start, to her amazement. Surely someone as handsome and rugged as Montparnasse would want someone more elite; some grisette from the Marais, or at least a decent woman from the suburbs. That he'd chosen _her_-an ugly, dirty gamine from Saint Michel-had been the best thing that had happened to her in years. Parnasse made her feel protected, and had stayed by her longer than any boy ever had.

"My father's put me in here." She whispered. "I'm telling you, there is no good left in that man. The money I'm going to collect for the next three days, from the man who forced themselves upon me...he'll take it all, and do the same thing to Azelma sometime in the future. Wouldn't you say that's just horrible?"

Montparnasse grinned crookedly, and gave a small burp. "I say that's damn good business."

She stared at him, as dumbstruck as if he'd slapped her. What on earth was he saying?

Then she saw the truth. The slowness in his movement, the glaze in his eyes, the tone of his voice...

"Parnasse," she said sadly. "You're drunk."

His eyes widened, making him look something like a sallow-faced bullfrog. "That's an honest-to-goodness lie! I am certainly not drunk...yet." He chuckled, and raised the half-empty bottle in his hands to his lips.

"_Parnasse_." She whispered, more urgently this time. "You have to help me escape. I don't want to be used like a whore."

He eyed her, silently for a moment. Then he smiled again. "All right. I'll make a deal with you."

"What?"

"You give me a kiss, and I'll help you."

Éponine looked at him, perplexed. Montparnasse had kissed her before, of course, but he's never asked permission to do it. Why was he now?

Though it seemed like such a simple thing to agree, she found herself saying "Umm..I don't know."

"Ah, c'mon, 'Ponine." He complained, his words slurred. "I'll give you a franc." And he brought a shiny silver piece out of his pocket to prove it. "It'll be a nice bit of coin that your father won't be robbing you of."

She had to admit, he had a point. Despite a strange feeling in her gut telling her to refuse, Éponine leaned out the window and took the coin from his hand.

"Good. Now, if you don't mind, I'll have what I paid for."

Before she could fully comprehend the meaning of his words, he cupped her face in his hands and brought her lips to his.

Instead of feeling giddy and light-hearted, as she had in the past when Montparnasse had kissed her, Éponine felt as if she was being smothered by a completely different person; a darker, crueler entity than the boy she fancied she loved.

After a few moments, Montparnasse broke their intimacy, and released her. He smiled crookedly again. "Ah...well worth the money, dearie." Something about the way he said it put Éponine on edge. Somewhat self-consciously, she wiped the kiss off her lips with her arm.

She coughed to break her silence. "All right, then," she said, trying to gather her thoughts. "Will you help me now?"

The dandy nodded pleasantly, but there was a mischievous glint in his eyes that increased her discomfort. ""Course I will, _ma cherie. _Some advice for you; tomorrow, if the man is ugly, then I suggest you simply close your eyes and get it over with. If he's handsome, however, then try to have a little fun. But not too much, mind you. I know you're such a good girl." And with that, Montparnasse made a mocking bow, turned his back, and began to leave.

Éponine watched him go, dumbfounded at first, but then her confusion quickly turned to fury.

"Bastard!" She yelled. "You wretched, drunken, dilapidated mountebank! I wanted you to help me _escape_, not leave me here in this house of whores!"

"Oh, you're one to talk, dearie." Montparnasse snapped, turning back on her in a flash. The glint she'd noticed before was even greater now, and neither of his dark eyes reflected the light of the lamps that shone on his pale face. "As I've always understood it, whores are women who make deals with men on issues of a wildly inappropriate topic. And I must say, you're becoming quite skilled at that. You made a pact with your father to spare your sister-" He smiled at the look of surprise on her face. "Yes, I know all about that, 'Ponine. Thenardier is such a gossip, did you know? But furthermore, whores also take men's money, and you only need look at the new franc in your hands to prove I'm right." Montparnasse walked to her window, and leaned in, so that she could smell the drink on his breath. "But if you still need motivation to stay here, let me tell you this; if Thenardier doesn't pay us back the money he lost-oh yes, we know he lost it to Wolfstein-then Clauqesous has sworn to break every bone in his slimy little body, and I'm deeply considering helping him. So hold on to that franc, 'Ponine. You might just need it to save your father's life."

Montparnasse raised his hands, and slammed down her window. She could hear the loud _thud!_ of its impact on the wood. The dandy eyed her one last time with a look crueler than she'd ever seen him give, and then he vanished into the shadows.

Éponine staggered away from the window, her limbs numb. She wanted to scream. She wanted to burst out of this terrible room and this ungodly house, find Montparnasse and shake him until he turned into a pile of jam in her hands. She wanted to ask him what the hell was wrong with him and the reason for his bipolar episode. Why they couldn't go back to the way things were before, when she imagined the two of them, forever and forever.

But the shock of what had just happened, and the words exchanged between them left her drained of all anger. Only sadness was left. So she climbed into the lumpy bed Madame Ferrant- no, _Pompidou_- had given her, and cried herself to sleep.


End file.
